What's a Hero?
by icekings
Summary: A reflective call it angsty if you like piece inspired by the death of one of my earliest heroes on September 11, 2002.


Heroes are different things to different people. September 11 is a day that will always be remembered as a day of heroes. This year was the first of what I hope will always be a day of remembering heroes and not of reliving tragedy. But this year was also meaningful, and ironic, to me for another reason. I never heard the news until yesterday and had no time to write this until now, though its been on my mind since I heard...it is less a tribute to the man than a reflection on my thoughts of what makes a particular person a hero to us. Consider it a 'Mary Sue' if you like, because in this one the professor is seeing things through the eyes of a young me back in the 1960s (and we're both about the same age).

Gary Curtis 9/13/02

WHAT'S A HERO?

The Girls were all in different moods as school let out. It had been a day of remembrance everywhere around Townsville and Pokey Oaks Kindergarten was no exception. A brief, quiet ceremony outside next to the flagpole, where Old Glory hung at half-mast for the entire day, and then Ms. Keane had told the kids that it would be business as usual. In that way, she said, a message was sent to terrorists that you may destroy people and buildings but you can't destroy Freedom.

Buttercup was more active than usual, fidgeting in her seat and even more aggressive on the playground at recess. She was burning off her residual anger that came boiling up from inside at remembering the events of a year earlier. Now, as class was excused, she subconsciously was looking for a way to get rid of the rest with a good, hard game of football. The season for it was here and she was geared up for it. But she found no takers. Most of the parents had, in the sense of heightened security that permeated the air, come to pick their children up. Upon arriving home with her sisters and going to their room, she decided to watch some of her collection of tapes of classic football games. It would have to do for now to satisfy her craving for action.

Blossom never understood what Buttercup got out of watching those old films, some of which were ancient, grainy, black and white things, except possibly the fun of seeing large bodies slamming together. She was in a reflective mood and got one of her books on American Presidents, a great many who had been true heroes before their political careers began, and took it to their desk. She hoped she wouldn't be distracted by Buttercup's viewing on their small combo TV/VCR, and as soon as the deep, droning baritone of the video's narrator filled the room, she knew it would just become background noise. The guy sounded so serious and spoke reverently about what to her was just guys who once played a silly game. She quickly became lost in her book...as soon as the argument was settled.

Bubbles was her usual happy self until her green-eyed sister commandeered the TV. She wanted to watch her favorite afternoon show before it was time to go downstairs and help set the table for supper. The thing was, Blossom pointed out to her, that she had several favorite shows, so it was no big deal. She got her sisters to agree to 30 minutes of tape-watching for Buttercup, and an equal amount of time for Bubbles. That done, she sat back, smugly proud of her mediation skills, and read her book.

Fifteen minutes in, though, Buttercup broke her concentration with shouts of "Yes! Go! Go! Go!". She looked up to see some guy running to a touchdown. Big deal. 

"Buttercup, how can you get so excited about a game that was played a million years ago and you already know the score of? What's exciting about that?"

Buttercup's face never moved away from the screen as she answered. "Ah, you don't know nuthin'. That was Gale Sayers! Nobody ran as fast as he did! Even I woulda had a tough time catchin' 'im! This is the game where he scored SIX TOUCHDOWNS!!"

Sure enough, there was the same guy running for another score, going the opposite way this time; with the narrator intoning about the exploits of a guy she'd never heard of. She shook her head. What were football players next to Presidents and great military leaders and the great philosophers? Even the important scientists and inventors, like the professor, who was HER hero. Her thoughts were interrupted when her sister yelled, "Touchdown, Baltimore! The Colts win!", she looked up. It was two different teams now, from an even older game, and she saw a mob of people running onto the field, then a cut to a grainy black and white face shot of a young man. He had a crew cut and a mischievous grin, and though obviously tired, he was obviously happy. 

__

"Big deal." she thought again. She noted that Bubbles didn't seem to mind at all, just sitting there watching quietly, even smiling slightly, absorbing some of Buttercup's joy. But it was enough for her, and she got up to head downstairs. Maybe she'd see if she could help with supper, if the professor was even working on it yet. Maybe he'd take them out!

As soon as she opened the door, she knew they wouldn't be going out. She smelled macaroni and cheese coming from the kitchen. No problem. As she left, she noted the time on their bedside clock and said to Buttercup, 'Fifteen minutes, and it's Bubbles' turn, and I don't wanna have to come up here!"

"Yeahyeahsuresure." The green eyes never left the TV. She jumped suddenly, causing Bubbles to jump and Blossom to flinch, and she threw her shoulders to one side in imitation of the tremendous hit she'd just seen. "Oh, man, whatta hit! THAT QB ain't gettin' up right away!" 

Blossom heard the 'crunch' from where she stood. Buttercup turned to her and said, "Betcha didn't know Deacon Jones came up with the name 'sack'!"

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"Who cares?" Blossom thought, shook her head one more time, and headed down the stairs.

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She was surprised to find the professor, not in the kitchen, or even in the lab, but sitting quietly on the couch in the living room with the TV remote control in his hand. The set was turned off, and he had a reflective expression on his face, as though his mind were somewhere else. He didn't respond until her third attempt.

"Thinking about today?" she asked.

"Yes, Blossom. I hadn't given it a LOT of thought, actually. We've lived with it for a whole year now, and we knew this first anniversary was going to come. I was kinda prepared for it, but..."

"But what, Professor?"

"Well, it's sad, and also kind of ironic that it happened today."

__

"What happened?" she wondered to herself and feared something terrorism related, maybe in another part of the world. But the TV would be on if it was something big. No, it had to be something personal to him. So she asked.

He indicated in the direction of the set with a small wave of his hand, then set the remote down. "Today was a day for remembering heroes, Blossom, and that's a good thing. But I just found out a short while ago that one of MY heroes died today."

She sat instantly on the couch next to him and looked up with big, worried eyes. He seemed sad, but quiet-sad and not in-mourning-sad.

"Who was it, Professor? A world leader? A scientist? One of your old teachers?"

He smiled, thankful for her concern. "You probably never heard of him, honey. No, he wasn't any of those. But he was a hero to me when I was a boy. Funny, I haven't even thought about him in years. That happens to your childhood heroes after they leave the limelight."

"Gee, will that happen to US? Will people forget about us, too?"

He gave her a reassuring smile. "Well, Blossom, we're talking about different kinds of heroes, here. You three aren't likely to be forgotten any time soon, so don't worry about that!"

She breathed a sigh of relief. He went on, a bit more seriously. "But yes, there will come a time when the cheering for you will stop and you girls will be remembered only in history books and on TV and video. You can't worry about that, though, because it happens to everyone who is famous at one time or another. You just have to live your lives fully every day, just like this man did after the cheering stopped. It's been more than forty years since the event that he's most remembered for, and his career lasted for years after that, so don't go thinking that you guys'll be washed up any time soon, OK?"

"OK. Professor, was he a superhero like us? You said people used to cheer for him."

"Well, not 'super' in the sense that you three are. But he WAS a hero to a lot of people."

"Why was he YOUR hero, Professor?"

"Hmmm. Well, Blossom, when I was young, I wasn't interested very much in science until, well, you know THAT story!"

They exchanged grins. "Sure do!"

"But I WAS interested in other things, and one of them was what this guy did for a living. He was one of the best ever at what he did."

"What did he do that was so great, if he wasn't a great world leader or a scientist or a doctor or a teacher or somebody else who did things to help people? Was he a police officer or a fireman?"

"No, Blossom, he wasn't any of those, either. But there are all kinds of heroes. The funny thing is, there are many people who are thinking like you are, that you have to be in one of those professions to be a hero. The fact is, heroism takes many forms. There's the type you mentioned that society absolutely needs, and there's superheroes like you, who we'd be in a whole lot of trouble without. But there's another kind, too. They have this larger-than-life mystique about them and, even if what they do may not seem to be too important in the grand scheme of things, they are seen as heroes by those same doctors and teachers and policemen and firemen, and by people from all walks of life who look up to these men whose exploits are such a big part of their everyday lives. Presidents invite them to the White House, that's how looked up to they are."

"Whoa!" Blossom found that extremely impressive, that a Presidentwould do that.

"And, Blossom, I think you would have appreciated this guy if you could have met him. He WAS a great leader of sorts. Men followed him. He had to battle all sorts of problems to be the best in his field, and he wasn't always liked by everybody. Lots of people didn't like him at all when he was his most famous."

"That doesn't make any sense."

"Well, it does, in a way. In fact, Blossom, many of those gallant policemen and firefighters who sacrificed their lives a year ago probably were among the ones who couldn't stand him once. He was an enemy of sorts to them, and those New Yorkers took great pride that one of THEIR greatest heroes gave this man his worst defeat ever. But that was only in the heat of battle, and he is being remembered today as a hero, by friends and former enemies alike."

"Gee. I guess you can't ask for anything more than that, huh? To have even your enemies respect you. And he was YOUR hero, too."

"Yeah, for a while. Like I said, I hadn't even thought about him in years. But in the day, me and my friends, we wanted to be just like him some day. But we outgrew that and found other heroes to inspire us. Very few people, Blossom, ever make it as far as he did and there was NO way I was going to be what HE was. We don't have heroes to be LIKE those heroes. We have them because they represent the best of what we can become."

"I understand, Professor." Blossom said solemnly. "I'm sorry he died."

"Me too. But I didn't know him or any of his friends and loved ones, so I'm sad more for myself than for him. That isn't really right but I think you'll understand some day. What I feel more than anything is kinda old. I lost a piece of my youth today."

"What did he do, Professor?"

A loud scream from upstairs broke up the conversation. It was Buttercup, yelling, "NOOOOO!!"

They both jumped up from the couch and Blossom hovered, a scowl forming on her face. "They're fighting over the TV, and I told Buttercup she had to give Bubbles her turn!"

Right on cue, there was Bubbles, flying into the room with an anxious expression on her face. "Professor! Buttercup-"

"I know, Bubbles." he said, frowning and starting for the stairs. "I'll take care of it."

"No, Professor!" the little blonde 'Puff protested, flapping her arms. "She took out the tape and there was this sports channel on TV and Buttercup got all upset and she's CRYING!"

He and Blossom exchanged a quick worried look, and they all hurried upstairs. It was amazing, how he could move almost as quickly as the girls when one of them was in trouble.

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They found Buttercup sitting a few feet from the TV, on the floor, watching a sportscaster. In her arms was her football, which she squeezed tightly. A few large tears ran down one cheek of her forlorn face.

Blossom saw footage of old football games and heard the man saying things about someone, something about the records and the three championships and the greatest game ever played and the importance of it to the National Football League and it was all because of the guy being talked about, a name she didn't recognize. Buttercup obviously did.

The professor knelt down next to his saddened little girl. "What's the matter, honey?"

She looked up at him. She wanted to be brave and not cry, so she squeezed the ball even tighter in one arm and wiped the tears away with her other hand. "Johnny Unitas died."

Just then, that exact name was mentioned by the sportscaster and Blossom saw the exact same young man with the crew-cut hair that she had seen not a half-hour before on her sister's tape. The boyish grin stared out, permanently fixed in time as the announcer's words sounded over the picture, which was framed in black and faded to black and a commercial.

"Johnny Unitas, dead today at 69."

Blossom pointed at the screen. "Hey, that's the same guy..."

Buttercup jumped up and away from the professor, angrily pumping the ball back in her right hand, ready to throw it; ironically, in the same pose as she'd seen on her tapes. "It stinks!"

She lowered her arm and turned, letting the ball fall to the floor and looking up at him sadly. "Why do heroes hafta die?"

He knelt beside her again. Bubbles, as sensitive as she was, took on the mood around her and felt sad for her sister. She moved closer to them. He touched Buttercup's hair softly and said, "Buttercup, heroes are just people like the rest of us, and-"

Blossom interrupted, finding her sister's reaction to this man's death a bit over the top. "Buttercup, he was just some old football player, not a HERO! You should be sad for the professor, 'cause one of HIS heroes, a REAL hero, died today too. Tell her, Professor!"

He stood up and gave Blossom a wry smile, then looked at the other two girls. They returned it. "Who, Professor?" Buttercup asked, feeling a little silly, now.

"Well, girls," he began. "By a strange coincidence, his name was also Johnny Unitas and he also played football."

Their eyes grew as big as saucers, but none as big as Blossom's. She tried to speak but no words came out and finally, her face fell along with her slumped shoulders. She felt two inches tall.

"I'm sorry, Buttercup." She looked up. "I'm sorry, Professor!"

He got all the girls to sit down on their bed before he took a chair and pulled it up to sit and talk.

"You see, Blossom, heroes take many forms. To you, an athlete isn't very important, but to many people, especially kids, they CAN be, if they represent what's good and SHOULD be admired. Things like hard work and overcoming obstacles and not quitting, even when things are going against you. You guys already know something about that."

"Yeah, Professor!" Buttercup agreed, more animated, now. "Blossom, did you know that he finished a game with a couple broken ribs and a collapsed LUNG?! Now, THAT'S cool!"

It didn't sound very cool to her, but she had to admit it DID sound heroic, if not a little dumb. But then, she had just learned, he had teammates who counted on him, being the leader and all.

"I think I get what you mean by him having enemies, Professor. The fans that like the teams he beat."

"Yes, Blossom. Like the ones in New York I told you about. He broke their hearts in 1958 but they got their revenge when THEIR biggest hero beat him in 1969."

"Yeah! Joe Namath!" Buttercup exclaimed. "He was cool, too!"

"Hey, I heard of him!" Bubbles said brightly. "He's that old guy that does the commercials for the stuff you put on sore joints and stuff!"

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"Ouch!" the professor thought. Today sure wasn't making him feel any younger. "Yes, Bubbles, that guy. They might not have been the type of heroes that affect people's lives the way we normally think of heroes, but they help make our lives more enjoyable and at the same time, teach us things about the importance of being our best. And the people we think of as TRUE heroes DO look up to them."

Blossom said, "I understand now, Professor."

He stood up, remembering the casserole in the oven that would be burnt soon if it wasn't already. "Good, honey. Now, before we head downstairs to get supper on, there's just one more thing I want to say. We can and should feel sad when we lose one of our heroes. For their friends and family and for ourselves, too. But it helps us to feel less sad if we remember that they are now in a place where the game goes on forever, nobody ever loses and the cheering NEVER stops." 

End


End file.
